


Moved, By A Higher Love

by CaptainSlow



Series: Coming Back To You Universe [2]
Category: Rammstein
Genre: I'd say it's porn without plot but as it happens it's still a part of a larger-scale plot XD, M/M, with porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:28:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24736174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainSlow/pseuds/CaptainSlow
Summary: Well, let it happen then, Richard thinks and lets Paul's arm slip out of his grasp. They're probably way too far gone to change anything now, he muses as he walks alongside Paul, feeling as if he's being pushed onwards by some inexplicable inevitability.
Relationships: Richard Kruspe/Paul Landers
Series: Coming Back To You Universe [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1785925
Comments: 13
Kudos: 55





	1. Chapter 1

_I surrender all control_  
_To the desire that consumes me whole_  
_And leads me by the hand to infinity_  
_That lies in wait at the heart of me_

_Moved, lifted higher_  
_Moved, my soul's on fire_  
_Moved, by a higher love. *(c)_

They do manage to escape from the club avoiding any possible unwanted adventures, after all. There is nobody in the darkness that fills the stairwell leading towards the back door, nor is there anyone hanging out outside, smoking, drinking, shagging, or otherwise. 

The night air is pleasantly cool on Richard's skin, and only now does he finally realise just how flushed his face is. No, judging by how it feels, it's not _merely_ flushed – for all the good it does him, his cheeks must be virtually flaming red. He follows Paul hurriedly, being grateful that it's dark and that even if they pass by street lamps, the meagre electric light won't be enough to reveal the true colour his face has acquired, the colour caused by the excitement and embarrassment in equal measures from what they've just done. Paul's casual remark about actually liking it doesn't make the situation any better.

While he has some free time on his hands whilst trying to keep up with Paul as they trot through a shady alleyway, Richard's eyes seem to take up the life of their own. They study the petite silhouette in front of him with hungry attention, from the bleached mess of hair on top of Paul's head down to the sloppy ponytail and along his slim neck; over the edgy line of his shoulders clad in a sweater that must be a couple of sizes bigger than strictly necessary; down along one of his arms, the sleeve of the sweater rolled up to his elbow. Helplessly, Richard stares, as if enchanted, at Paul's wrist, ever so thin and delicate. The memory of how fragile it felt in the circle of his fingers is still way too fresh to let him be. No, it makes him want to touch it again, the cool skin, the stringy sinews working underneath it. Another image floods his mind, uninvited, that of Paul bringing a cigarette up to his mouth, then flicking his wrist to shake off the ash, his movements jerky and somewhat nervous, just like his very fidgety self. 

Richard blinks, making the vision dissipate and go away. He's got a feeling – somewhere at the back of his mind where his common sense is dozing off quietly – that he's been living through the latest events as if he was in an eerie kind of a delusional dream, but just like it always happens with dreams, it's not in his powers to change its course, so all he can do is go with the flow of it. It is scary, yet, at the same time, it evokes a certain kind of thrill in him, too. And, truth be told, it's not as if he would like to change it. If anything, it just seems a bit too late for that. And there's also another thing, a trait that's always been strong in Richard – his curiosity. He only hopes it's not going to kill him tonight or later, like it did with the unfortunate proverbial cat.

Instead of lingering on Paul's hands with their spider web of veins and thin nervous fingers, his gaze ventures down, over his butt and to his legs. It makes Richard wonder, wonder for a hundredth time or more – now with the only difference that he's not trying to fight it off anymore – what it would feel like to touch him. He got a taste of it back in that stinky bathroom cubicle, but it already starts to seem to him as if it had happened just a couple of moments and probably a couple years ago, to the extent that he's not sure anymore whether it took place at all.

But it must have, right? Here Paul is, walking right in front of him, his steps light and brisk.

The memory of the weird mixture of almost feminine fragility with unmistakably male hardness of Paul's body is still more than fresh. It's so fresh, in fact, that Richard can almost _feel_ Paul's smell even here in the open. He perfectly recalls how eagerly that body yielded to him; he remembers that intense heat radiating off Paul's unexpectedly thick cock as he held it in the palm of his hand, squeezed tightly against his own; he remembers Paul's breath, hushed and so desperate… and he just can't help but _wonder_. Wonder what it would be like if they--

This moment is exactly when Paul chooses to turn around, hands now stuck into the back pockets of his pants, startling Richard so badly he nearly stumbles over a cobble stone that sticks out of the pavement. What's more, he's painfully aware of the fact that he's getting hard again – not yet a proper boner but kind of on its way to become one – and he feels himself blush even more furiously. He holds Paul's gaze, however, unable to decipher the look in the other man's darkened eyes. There's also that elusive Mona Lisa smile lingering languidly over his lips, and Richard finds himself both intrigued and irritated by it. Intrigued for the obvious reason of it being the _Mona Lisa_ kind of smile; irritated because it looks as if Paul knows something he doesn't, and that he might use that something against him at the very first opportunity. 

"That place I was telling you about," Paul says, still facing Richard and thus having to walk backwards.

"Huh?"

Despite all the turmoil inside of him, Richard speculates how long it'll take the man to trip over something and spectacularly land on his butt. He can't say he knows Paul well, but he's known him long enough to understand that he can – and probably likes to – make a klutz out of himself.

"The bar, eh?" Paul shrugs lightly. "It's just a couple of blocks away from here. So, you know, if you still feel that the night's young and all the jazz…" he falls silent, still with that maddening half-smile plastered to his face, then shrugs again and motions his head to the right, apparently in the direction of the place.

"Ah, the bar, right. Sure, why not."

Paul nods, his smile growing a bit more prominent, and, finally – predictably enough, too – his feet trip over each other while he's turning away. Instinctively, Richard reaches out to grasp him precisely by one bare forearm, hearing his own breath hitch as those bones and sinews work against his palm all over again, feeling how a heavy weight plunges down into the pit of his stomach. For a moment, it's almost like being hit by an electric shock, and then it's gone.

"Fuck!" Paul curses through a muffled burst of laughter.

"You idiot," Richard chuckles quietly at the same time, and there it is again, that feeling as if laughing together makes it all justified.

There's not much that needs to be justified yet – well, except that little bathroom incident, but never mind it right now – but Richard suspects there's a lot waiting just around the corner.

 _Well, let it happen_ _then_ , he thinks and lets Paul's arm slip out of his grasp. They're probably way too far gone to change anything now, he muses as he walks alongside Paul, feeling as if he's being pushed onwards by some inexplicable inevitability.

The bar they end up in is a bit smaller than the one they just left, but the scene doesn't look less lively or less shady because of it. It's practically packed with people, but Paul claims to know the owners, which in its turn apparently ensures they'll get a snug little place. Fortunately, they bump into one of them right at the door, and judging by his reaction, he and Paul must be old acquaintances.

The guy grins at Paul as soon as they come out of the darkness and there's enough light from one dusty lamp above the entrance for him to recognise his face. Once he does, he actually pulls Paul into a tight hug – a bit _too_ tight for his liking, Richard notes to self with a trace of surprise. What follows is a casual sort of chit-chat, Paul introducing them to each other, the owner, whose name turns out to be Jacob something, reaching out to shake Richard's hand and Richard self-consciously stretching his, genuinely hoping against all hope that he managed to wipe it clean enough back there in the bathroom. All of that is happening while some detached part of his brain registers little signs from the aforementioned Jacob, and Richard has little liking for any of them, too. The way he looks at Paul, his grin sly and sickeningly sleek, just like him; the way he jokes and the tone of his voice, murmuring and somehow insinuating; the way his hand lingers way too long on Paul's bony sweater-clad shoulder, the pad of his thumb just a hair breadth away from the bare skin of his throat.

 _Stop it_ , Richard chides himself, _you're being ridiculous._

And no shit, he absolutely is, but stopping it is easier said than done, god damn his innate sense of possessiveness. Paul's not a girl, and he's not _his_ girl, for fuck's sake, and he surely knows what he's doing, and it's not Richard's business in the first place, fair and square, but he still can't help wishing the sleek bastard would keep his snatchy hands off Paul. The latter doesn't seem to be too vexed about such treatment, however, and just continues to chat and smile his trademark smile, spicing it with an occasional giggle. Richard doesn't know Paul well enough to understand what any of this means, but he has a suspicion he might have got the hang of it. And by god, he doesn't like what he suspects. He doesn't like anyone flirting with Paul on a night when Paul should be all _his_ to flirt with. That is, if Richard dared to grow some balls and at least stopped blushing so furiously.

In the end – and it couldn't come soon enough – the sleek Jacob finally takes his goddamn hand off and personally leads them to the bar counter, through the maze of people, tables, waitresses and cigarette smoke.

"The place's chock-full tonight," he says apologetically, speaking to both of them, but Richard sees he's only got eyes for Paul, "but that's what you'd expect on a Friday night. I'd have kept a table for you had I known you were planning to pop by. Rob! The first drink's on the house for my friends. Have fun!"

With that, he gives Paul another one of his sickeningly sweet smiles, pats him on the shoulder and with a final nod and a glance at Richard, which Richard doesn't particularly like because if feels somehow _crawling_ , he finally saunters off to do whatever job he has in this place. Watching him go, Richard silently prays the man doesn't have any intention of coming back and giving them some company.

"Old friend," Paul says once the Jacob guy is certainly out of the hearing range, his voice sounding as if it should explain everything, and Richard nods, as if it really does, for the time being just relieved that they're left alone. 

In the following couple of hours that they spend here, they drink little and talk a lot, thankfully, without the sleek bastard's further interference, and at some point Richard finds, to his slight surprise, that he's all but forgotten about any sexual motives that have actually led him here in the first place. Talking to Paul is good and even despite their quite different views on certain things, they have very similar tastes in many others. It is only after two-hour long discussion into music scene, guitars, punks, girls, cars, football and lots of other stuff that Richard realises that indeed time _can_ fly fast. It's been his first ever proper conversation with Paul, and he finds he's beginning to actually warm up to the guy, in a normal way and not only in terms of that weird physical attraction he's been tormented by over the past few weeks. 

He's almost starting to have second thoughts about that compulsive desire he had just recently because this easy-going, animated banter they have right now seems so awfully unrelated to what took place between them earlier tonight. Richard doesn't really know what he expected to happen when they came here, but it wasn't _this_. The atmosphere is so carefree and relaxed that it makes him think that they might actually become mates one day. Maybe even good mates. Richard's in the midst of a somewhat tipsy daydream – or maybe that's a Friday-night dream, or rather an early-Saturday-morning dream, considering the time – of actually getting Paul to play in his band when a sharp clink of a glass over the wooden counter pulls him back into reality. 

He looks up at Paul, but the latter is staring right in front of himself, at his hands that are holding his empty beer glass, and for the first time since that bathroom incident he looks… _What?_ Richard muses. Uncertain? Anxious? Excited? All of it? He can't say for sure, of course, but he reckons that if Paul let the beer glass go, his hands would probably be shaking. As of now, his thumbs keep nervously polishing its smooth surface, leaving smudges of moisture in their stead. Nevertheless, there's still a trace of that elusive half-smile playing on his lips, and all of a sudden Richard remembers, remembers in every tiny detail, just exactly _how_ those lips felt against his own – the pressure and the wetness and the eagerness – and just like that, all thoughts of ever getting to play with Paul, of guitars and contemporary music scene and whatnot are gone as if they'd never been there in the first place. All that is left is the old familiar wriggling knot of snakes in the pit of his stomach which echoes with a pleasant, pulling heaviness in his testicles.

"Whaddya say if we leave this stinking excuse for a bar and head for my place?" Paul asks in a low voice, and once the last syllable is out of his mouth, its corner lifts up in a smirk.

Then he turns his head, just a little, and gives Richard a sideway look, one eyebrow raised quizzically. 

He's apparently waiting for a reply, but currently Richard can hardly say anything at all. He can hardly _think_ , to be more precise. All he can do is stare back at Paul and be contented that there's no trail of spit drooling down his chin, at least he very much hopes so. That cheeky smile, that goddamn cheeky smile, doubtlessly somewhat anxious but looking no less cocksure because of it. And those delicate wrists, damn them. And the gentle hollows created by his collar bones. And… but there are too many other _and's_ – it seems like every little thing about Paul, his every feature, his every movement, his every glance tonight have an outstanding ability to communicate straight to Richard's cock. 

"I'd say, why not?" he hears himself say after a good while, his throat dry as sandpaper. "You lured me into that bathroom, I guess there's no point in resisting you luring me into your flat."

This bravery on his part is mostly due to the sudden excitement caused by the realisation that that sleek-arsed Jacob never had and never will have one chance in a million if _this_ is how Paul chooses to flirt. He may giggle as much as he likes and be all sunshine and smiles, but it's this dark look in his eyes, this damned provocative look that got Richard up from his sofa and made him follow Paul into the bathroom earlier tonight.

"Gotta finish the night accordingly," he grins, hoping against all hope that it looks bold enough. 

He's feeling anything _but_ bold, though – excited like a fucking puppy, nervous like a 21-year-old virgin getting laid for the first time, both scared to death and way too ignorant of the subtleties of how it should work between two blokes. But if Paul notices the state he's in, he doesn't show it in any way. He just laughs out quietly and looks away, and Richard can swear this laughter lights up his whole face. Simultaneously, it lights up something else, a whole inferno, one that's raging in the depths of Richard's groin; the inferno which doesn't seem to have any intention of subsiding. For the first time Richard wonders what it is exactly that Paul feels, what it is that is leading _him,_ personally, into this. Does he want Richard just as badly in return? Has he been thinking of him as if possessed over the course of the past few weeks? Has he noticed Richard's glances and interpreted them the right way? Is he gay? Is he straight? Does he swing both ways? Does he have any idea of what the fucking hell they're doing at all?

But there are way too many questions, and Richard's mind isn't fit enough to answer any of them right now.

As they leave the bar – thankfully missing the chance to say good-bye to their sleek bastard of a new friend – Richard continues to contemplate Paul's possible motives. He's got plenty of time now because, as opposed to the earlier, both of them are keeping unusually quiet. Paul is briskly walking at a little distance in front of him again, leading the way through the deserted streets paved with cobble stone and overshadowed by lush summer greenery. The air feels more than a little fresh now, making Richard wonder what time it is; it must be coming on morning already, and there's a soft breeze blowing over his face and ruffling his hair. Both the coolness and the wind, however, do absolutely nothing to either soothe his need or alleviate his anxiety. 

"People back there in the club must be wondering where the hell we've disappeared," Paul suddenly says, a trace of a smile in his voice.

And god fucking damn him, that peculiar Berliner accent of his also seems to communicate directly with Richard's genitals. He's got a suspicion that if Paul continues to talk – and, anyway, is there anyone who could shut Paul up when the man chooses to be vocal about something – he'll soon give Richard certain troubles walking.

"You think it's gonna raise questions?" Richard asks, trying to sound casual. In reality, he's way too aroused to care about what anyone will possibly think of them.

"What questions?" Paul huffs, turning around to glance back at Richard. "Whether or not we've sodded off to fuck each other?"

For a moment Richard's so taken aback by Paul's outstanding way with words that he nearly stops dead in his tracks. It's not the unexpectedness of his statement – after all, that's precisely what they're doing, going to Paul's with the intention of having sex – but the mere sound of it being articulated out loud makes his heart drop and then somersault heavily somewhere in the region of his solar plexus. His breath hitches, too. His eyes hold Paul's glance, and what he sees in it is pure madness, probably his own being reflected in the sparkling depths of the smaller man's eyes. He can also see how heavy Paul's breath is, as if they've been running instead of walking, his chest heaving underneath his sweater, lips parted in that half-teasing, half-frightened grin. And Richard realises he can't really stand it anymore. Nah, not a single millisecond longer.

What he finds himself doing next is reaching out for Paul, and it's a weird feeling as if his common sense or his logical, down-to-earth, self or whatnot is actually lagging a couple of steps behind his body, thus reduced to the role of a mere spectator in tonight's events. His hands grab Paul's upper arms, his muscles strained as coils of a live wire beneath his fingers, and he pushes the man against the wall of the nearby house. In the blink of an eye his body is flush against Paul's, his groin pushed against Paul's groin, and oh does he feel it, does he feel the tension in his pants, does he feel how Paul's hips push forward to meet his as if by their own will because, for a fraction of a second, all he can see in Paul's eyes is, unexpectedly, uncovered fear. 

"D'you even know what a filthy mouth you've got, Paul?" Richard hisses into the said mouth, not a bit less tempting because of it, though. He can't help it; he sticks his tongue out and draws its tip across Paul's lips, moaning something utterly unintelligible because of just how intoxicatingly good it feels. "It's so fucking filthy I want to lick it all over right here."

Paul gulps, then lets out a shaky groan, and Richard feels his hands grab his arse as they pull him even closer. His fingers squeeze Richard's buttocks hard, and there's a thought flashing through his hazy mind that those are doubtlessly a guitarist's fingers, strong and firm.

"Fuck," Paul says – gasps, really, since the noises they let out can be characterised as speech with only great reserve – and thrusts his hips against Richard's. His eyelids flutter shut, a darker shade than the rest of his skin, his eyelashes sun-faded on their tips, and there are also a few freckles scattered across Paul's nose. _"Fuck."_

"Fuck indeed, mate," Richard whispers unsteadily as he rubs himself against Paul's crotch, and damn him, he can feel – he can almost _see_ before his mind's eye – the shape of Paul's cock beneath the thin layers of their clothes. 

Richard lowers his head until his lips come to rest against the underside of Paul's chin, his skin warm and a little scratchy with a day's stubble, his pulse hammering underneath at a maddening pace. Screw Paul's place, screw everything, he's going to do it right here, take Paul's cock out, get on to his knees and take him in. He wants it, wants it so badly, and the surprise at the actual fact of wanting to take another man's genitalia into his mouth is being completely outshone by his needy, greedy desire for physical contact. He would be doing just that, his hands already clawing at the fly of Paul's pants, if at that very moment a very sleepy and a very mad voice from somewhere above them didn't stop him dead in his tracks.

"You fags, get the hell out of here! Get out this very moment or I'll call the police!" the voice practically shrieks, sounding as if its owner was on the brink of a tantrum.

For a heartbeat, all they do is stare at each other, eyes wide-open, and then, when the initial shock passes, they take off and run, Richard starting in one direction, Paul hissing at him through a fit of utterly ill-timed giggles, "Not there, you idiot, the other way!" 

Paul's hand squeezes his so tightly as if he thought that everything would be completely lost if he let go, and in spite of himself, Richard starts to laugh, too. It's useless to even try to fight it off – Paul's giggles sound way too contagious for that.

The house they're heading for is indeed just a little way away, thank heaven for small mercies, and when they finally break in through the front door like a hurricane, winding up the stairs a few steps at a time and bursting into Paul's flat at last, Richard is practically choking, both from laughter and oxygen deprivation.


	2. Chapter 2

_I can taste more than feel_   
_This burning inside is so real_   
_I can almost lay my hands upon_   
_The warm glow that lingers on_

_Moved, lifted higher_   
_Moved, my soul's on fire_   
_Moved, by a higher love.*(c)_

"You..." Richard gasps once the front door slams shut behind them, his hands propped into his burning thighs.

"Shit," Paul chokes out, apparently in agreement.

"Never thought you could sprint that fast."

"Survival skills from the primary school," Paul sniggers breathlessly, sounding insane, drunken and on the brink of collapsing, all rolled in one.

Richard only shakes his head, simply unable to laugh anymore. His vision is swimming and his pulse pounds heavily in his temples, making him suspect he might have had just a little too much alcohol tonight. A little too much for an Olympic sprint home anyway. As he straightens up, he's torn between two equally strong desires – to lie down on the floor and finally catch his breath and to get back to what he and Paul started back there in the street when some homophobic insomniac interrupted them without a trace of good grace. A mere glance in Paul's direction, however, is more than enough to decide his course of action for tonight.

Paul's standing with his back pressed against the front door and he's equally out of breath, his eyes remaining shut and mouth hanging temptingly open as quick, shallow breaths wheeze in and out of it. Momentarily, Richard finds himself glued to the spot as he takes in the scene in front of him. It's dark here in the corridor, but to his right there's a window – apparently, one in the kitchen for all Richard can tell from the vague shapes of glasses and some other utensils piled on the table – and the scarce lighting from the outside is enough to illuminate one side of Paul's face, leaving the other one in pitch darkness. The contrast brings out the sharpness of his cheek bones and the just slightly crooked line of his nose, making shadows pool in his eye sockets. In such lighting, he looks both delicately feminine and unmistakably manly sculpted. Richard can't explain how both could be true at the same time but they are, and that's probably Paul in a nutshell for you, at least it's exactly the way Richard sees him, Ying and Yang trapped in one body, and by god, this duality becomes him.

Now that he isn't smiling, his features relaxed and his jaw slack, he looks – and Richard can finally admit it, _has_ to finally admit it – truly beautiful. That proper, right kind of beautiful, the kind that makes it simply impossible to take one's eyes off, and even if one manages to, their gaze just keeps getting drawn to it no matter what, over and over again, and it's never enough. Everything about him seems nothing short of perfect at this very moment, Paul's high forehead, his pointy nose and the tiny mimic wrinkles running down to the corners of his mouth; his lips, thin but sensual, parted as he's trying to catch his breath; his skin, pale and immaculate as if made of porcelain; his standing out collar bones, darkness shifting over them as his chest rises and falls.

The liquid fire in Richard's groin, heavy and relentless, flares even brighter now; the desire, the want, the need, the yearning to have this man, to have him right now, right here, becoming overwhelming. He swallows with difficulty, his jeans getting way too uncomfortable to be in, and when Paul unconsciously mimics his action, swallowing, which makes his larynx bob, Richard loses it completely. The strangest thing, however, is that the moment of his total capitulation isn't veiled by the fog of growing excitement. Somehow, he can perceive and process every little thing with outstanding clarity.

He's fully aware of who and where he is and he's totally in control of his every single muscle as he takes one conscious step forward, bringing himself almost flush against Paul's body. The smaller man's eyes flutter open immediately, and at that moment Richard can swear it _is_ possible to drown in them. In their dark, liquid, syrupy want. As if entranced, he lifts up one of his hands and places it gently – ever so carefully, as if Paul was a vision which could be disturbed by one heedless motion – onto the side of Paul's neck, fingers lightly curved around its back, thumb resting lightly on the quivering bulge of his larynx. Then slowly, as if afraid to miss every fraction of a second of what's going on, Richard slides his hand down, fingers splayed, over Paul's neck, tracing the hard nubs of his collar bones, down over his chest, letting it halt briefly in its middle, just over Paul's madly hammering heart. Its beat is so powerful it makes it feel like Richard's holding it in the very palm of his hand. His ribcage expands and deflates erratically, and when he lifts his eyes up to lock them with Paul's, the latter looks as if he is on the brink of a breakdown, his darkened gaze pleading.

" _Please_."

Paul's lips move but no sound at all leaves his mouth but those ragged breaths.

Still, despite how obvious Paul's need is; despite how unbearable his own is becoming, Richard can't help but take a while to just go on with this excruciatingly slow caress he's started. He slips his hand downwards, rotating it now so that his fingers are pointing down too. Instantly, Paul's stomach muscles contract beneath his touch, jerkily, and this time there is a sound – the sound of Paul's soft whining. It is so full of almost palpable desperation that Richard has to bite his lower lip hard not to give in to his plea and pounce on him. That's what his body wants. What his consciousness wants, though, is to be able to drag every single moment of what's happening now for as long as possible. He wants the touch, as much tactile information as he can get; he wants to see him, see his every reaction, see his skin, see his body, see how it moves and how it works; he wants to drive Paul to such an edge that he'd be whimpering from the mere thought of finally bringing their bodies into full contact; he wants Paul's cock to drip with desire before he even gets the chance to _touch_ it.

Judging by Paul's condition, though, as Richard lets his splayed hand move southward, he's already on his way to it. In fact, quite close to the destination. His breath is so erratic as if he was on the verge of bursting into tears, and every single exhale leaves him with a soft, whiny whimper. Paul's eyes look huge on his drawn face and perfectly imploring. His arms hang limply along his sides – he touches neither himself nor does he even try to touch Richard right now – which apparently hands the initiative completely over to Richard, at least for the time being.

Through the maze of excitement, he briefly wonders whether this is the first time for Paul just as it is for him. He could have sworn before that it shouldn't be – Paul's behaviour seemed way too cocky for him to be a total rookie in these things, but now he doesn't really know anymore. He doesn't know any single thing apart from that he wants this man terribly.

As his hand finally reaches its destination and closes gently but firmly – at least _this is_ a known territory for Richard – around his boner, Paul's hips shoot forward in a jerky motion, his eyes roll back in his head and he gulps sharply, letting the air out in a hiss.

"Fuck," Paul curses quietly, eyes once again piercing Richard with their pure, uncovered lust. "Please. Oh god, _please_."

"What d'you want me to do?" Richard whispers against Paul's mouth, not letting their lips touch and simultaneously stroking Paul through his pants. His own respiration is hard and heavy now, and the state of affairs in his jeans matches Paul's completely. "Say it already, you tease. What the fucking fuck do you want me to do to you?"

"Hold me," Paul blurts out without hesitation, and since Richard hasn't yet made any attempt to join their lips in a kiss, suddenly enjoying this achingly slow foreplay, Paul does it himself. He doesn't kiss him as it is, just lets his mouth linger against Richard's, merely brushing his skin, his breath scorching and moist. "Touch me. Manhandle me. Suck me. Fuck me. I want it all. I want _you_ to do all of it to me."

He accentuates his every request with a thrust of his hips, rubbing himself against Richard's hand because, all of a sudden, Richard finds himself almost paralysed. All Paul's just said is pretty trivial, all things considered, but hearing it pronounced out loud seems to have a totally magical effect on him. If he wasn't properly obsessed with the man before, now he certainly is. There's just no going back.

"I _want_ you," Paul hisses, and he sounds almost dismally angry. "Wanted you since the moment I saw you, Richard."

"Oh god," Richard breathes out weakly, pushing his forehead against Paul's. His fingers uncurl and he lets Paul's cock go, simply rubbing his whole palm along the pronounced shape of his hard-on. "You have no idea…"

He doesn't finish. The next moment his lips close on Paul's mouth and he loses himself completely in its wet, velvety, greedy softness.

The indefinable period of time which follows after is a maze of teeth, lips and tongue; full of warm, sweaty skin and tickling soft hair; hands full of each other; filled with scents of one another and the unmistakable odour of sex.

Garment by garment, Richard frees Paul from his clothes, determined not to miss a single square inch of his skin. His hideous sweater is the first to be pulled off and be discarded on the floor, and Richard – by the pure effort of will – makes himself step a little back just to take a look. A little time is more than enough, though, because it seems that his brain's suddenly working at its highest capacity. He barely has time to register the skinny torso, the bony shoulders and the protruding ribcage, the hollow stomach with just a hint of lean muscles beneath the pale skin and the prominent nipples before he's back on Paul with his mouth open.

He doesn't even kiss him this time – he only drags his mouth all over his chest and neck and shoulders, tasting him, _licking_ him, sucking at those maddening perky nipples with twice as much vigour. Paul's moans sound totally demented, and the next thing Richard knows is that his own jacket and then t-shirt are being relentlessly pulled off him. He welcomes the liberation.

How he ends up on his knees with his face buried into Paul's crotch totally eludes him, as if he's so unbelievably horny that his mind just chooses to go blank from time to time for safety reasons. Paul's pants are pooled around his ankles and Richard's own jeans are unbuttoned and unzipped and his cock is out – _at last_ – bouncing and leaking as he all but gobbles Paul's testicles.

There's a thought shooting through his head like a meteorite, something about how on earth he's come to _this_ so fast _,_ to willingly taking another man's genitalia into his mouth, but the thought is muffled by the sheer joy he feels from actually having his mouth stuffed with the said genitalia.

His hands are gripping Paul's hips, thumbs hooked over his hip bones, fingers buried into his butt cheeks, and his lips and tongue move erratically all over Paul's thick, bobbing cock and the sack of his balls. There must be little grace and little beauty in what he's doing, and even less skill, but he doesn't give a fuck. All he wants is to lick it all over, and if the sounds Paul's now constantly emitting can be trusted, he's more than okay with what Richard's doing to him. His size is indeed impressive, especially now that Richard can have a hands-on – or rather a _mouth-on_ – experience and be close and personal with it. For some reason, this fact thrills him even more, propelling him into the land of complete, sex-induced, dementia.

Out of nowhere, there's also a thought that if Paul actually decided to stick that big cock of his into Richard's virgin ass, he'd be barely able to protest, no matter how much the thought of it terrifies him. He'd probably sit on it himself, come to think of it, because as much as he's terrified, he's also twice as hungry for it.

Fortunately or not, he doesn't have to, though; not tonight anyway. Because, all of a sudden, Paul pushes him away, complementing his action with such a desperate groan that Richard guesses he must be balancing precariously at the point of no-return.

"Wait… don't…" he pants, hands propped onto Richard's shoulders.

With the position they're in now – Paul leaning over him and Richard sitting on his heels on the floor – the tip of Paul's saliva coated cock sways just in front of his very nose. He can see its slit and the transparent, viscous liquid oozing out of it, and he desperately wants to stick his tongue out and collect the drops, he wants it so insanely badly he's all but whimpering out loud. He doesn't though, simply scared that if he attempts anything like that, Paul will come all over his face and the fun will be over, and he doesn't want it to be over yet. He suspects there's more to come, pardon the pun.

 _"Come,"_ is what Paul says then, and for a heartbeat Richard just stupidly stares back at the tip of his cock before he finally realises that this particular _'come'_ stands for actual movement.

He smirks, licks his tingling lips and looks up hopefully.

"Let's go," Paul repeats stubbornly, his voice now just a bit more under control, and pulls at Richard's shoulders, beckoning him to get up. "Just don't touch me for fuck's sake, or I'll come all over myself."

"Don't you wanna do just that?" Richard asks hoarsely, but merely for the sake of some conversation. He guesses he knows the answer.

"Not just yet."

Paul gives him a smile, insane but still looking somewhat apprehensive, before stepping out of his pants and leading Richard through the dark apartment to what must be his bedroom. His every movement now is quick and oddly business-like, as if he might chicken out once he hesitates longer than strictly necessary. Richard reckons he can totally relate to that.

"Wait," Paul repeats again when they indeed reach a bed of sorts and lets go of Richard's hand, scurrying towards what looks like a chest of drawers and not saying a single word more. His figure looks slim and agile in the not quite complete darkness.

Richard obediently stays where he was left at the foot of the bed, taking the chance to get rid of his own jeans as well. When Paul returns, he's got a small jar of something clutched in his fingers, and before Richard can come up with anything to say, Paul's hand's already on his cock, cool and slick, stroking him and smearing that sleazy coolness along his entire length.

"What's that?" he asks stupidly, more in surprise than because of ignorance.

"Don't play the fool, you know what it is," Paul replies without looking at him, his hand swift and sure.

By way of response Richard just swallows thickly. So it really is happening. It really is. Fuck. _Oh fuck._

He wants it, of course, he wants it like nothing else, but he's simultaneously scared out of his mind. He's never done it, even with a girl, let alone with a man. Anal sex has never been on his agenda. That is, apparently, until tonight.

Predictably enough, what self-control he had left in him evaporates in the blink of an eye, and the hand that reaches out towards Paul's groin is not steady at all. Paul, however, shies away from his touch, taking a small step back but never letting his own hand halt on Richard's shaft.

"Don't. Not yet," he whispers, and before Richard can say anything, he steps back closer, dodging his hand again, and joins their lips together.

His other arm wraps loosely around his neck, not pulling him anywhere, merely resting over his shoulders. The kiss they share is a stark contrast to anything they did before, slow and oddly gentle, and Richard unheedingly lets his own hands rest lightly against Paul's cheeks, allowing himself to be led into this new, tantalisingly slow, pace.

When Paul finally breaks it, panting just a little, the constant motion of his hand on Richard's erection stops, too. The next thing he knows is he's got Paul bent before him, his hands and one knee propped on the mattress, his other foot on the floor, his back arched so that his butt sticks up, his thighs spread wide. Paul dips his fingers into that small round jar and brings them back to smear over his entrance what some distant part of Richard's conscious mind thinks must be Vaseline.

 _Fuck_.

"Paul," he more breathes out rather than says, uncertainly.

"Simply push," Paul replies, and his voice trembles only a little. "Just hold your dick and push."

"Are you--"

 _Are you sure?_ Richard wants to ask, but Paul doesn't let him finish.

"Yes, I am. Come on, Richard. I… I need you to. Please."

Paul doesn't look at him. He lowers himself onto his forearms instead, pushing his forehead against them, and if this position is not perfect enough to articulate what exactly Paul wants, then nothing could.

But oh well, why has he come here in the first place if not for _this_?

Richard looks at the sight in front of him for a moment, totally dazed, and then steps closer, pressing the tip of his Vaseline coated cock to Paul's slick entrance. His hand that's guiding it is trembling but ever so slightly. First, the pressure is so big he's sure nothing's going to work, that it just won't fit in, but then Paul thrusts back – Richard's ears, which seem to exist in some other dimension at this very moment, register his suppressed exhale as he does it – and then he's sliding in, almost effortlessly so.

For a couple of heartbeats Richard just stands there behind Paul totally taken aback by how it feels. It's too tight and too hot and – _oh sweet Jesus_ – he can _feel_ Paul's maddening pulse with his own cock, and then, suddenly, it's like it all clicks into place.

His hands find their way to Paul's hips, gripping them cautiously but firmly, and his body, obeying the call of his desire, sets up first a slow and tentative, then a slightly faster pace. His cock moves smoothly in and out of Paul's tight little arse, but his grip on him is so strong that Richard's more than sure he won't last long. He _can't_ last long. Fuck, it's already a miracle he wasn't done after the first few thrusts.

Then, from the corner of his eye he registers a movement, a moment later realising Paul's hand dashed to grip his own cock, and suddenly Richard knows he wants to do it for Paul, too. He leans in, which apparently results in him going deeper than before because Paul muffles into the mattress a surprised gasp of what Richard desperately hopes to be pleasure rather than discomfort, and props his left arm into the surface of the bed, his other hand sneaking towards Paul's crotch. His fingers brush over the curly fluff of hair, and then he gently but persistently pushes Paul's hand away, taking hold of his cock instead of him.

"Talk to me, Paul," he nearly pleads, wishing to at least know he's not doing anything wrong if not particularly right, as his hand starts a way more familiar movement along Paul's shaft, which is, thankfully, still feels hard enough.

Immediately, Paul's muscles clench around him more tightly, and Richard has to muffle his own gasp against Paul's back, his lips pressed to the standing out bones of his spine.

"Fuck me," Paul gasps in reply. "Slowly."

That's the last coherent phrase Richard will hear from him in the next half an hour or so because what leaves his mouth from now on is constant quiet moaning and occasional strings of unintelligible babble.

A little relieved, he obliges and fucks Paul slow and proper – that's what he knows how to do, after all, thank heaven for small mercies – complementing it with jerking him off in the same rhythm and leaving random, sloppy kisses against the middle of his back, and as Paul's moans grow more agitated and unmistakably more satisfied, Richard's own release rushes towards him at the speed of a freight train. He quickens the pace unconsciously, desperate to come, when another idea crosses his mind, making him stop and then pull out before he's got too carried away.

The sound that leaves Paul's mouth once he realises what Richard's just done is so utterly frustrated – a high-pitched whine bordering on a sob – that it makes Richard act in even greater hurry.

"I wanna see you," he murmurs as he rolls Paul – actually lifts him first, as easily as if he was a girl – onto his back and pulls him close to the edge of the bed.

Paul's breathing is still jerky and it looks like he barely understands what the hell Richard's up to at all, his eyes dark and cloudy, watching him from under heavy lids with a silent plea. His body feels limp and awfully supple. Richard could probably do absolutely anything to him right now, and Paul wouldn't be able to object.

"Wanna watch you," Richard repeats, catching Paul's legs under his knees and this time sliding back inside of him so urgently and so abruptly it makes Paul gasp and wince, but only briefly.

Once his hand returns to Paul's neglected cock and he starts picking up the pace he'd set just before he quit, Paul's eyes slip shut and he brings his hands to his face, covering it and muffling a shaky cry against them, looking so deliciously debauched splayed over the bed, lean and naked, hair in a mess, skin glistening with sweat, his cock rock-hard, legs spread wide for no one other but Richard.

"Wanna see you as you come," Richard gasps, letting go of one of Paul's legs and leaning closer to his face, never breaking his rhythm. "Come for me, Paul. Come for me. Come on, baby, come for me."

Richard's so close himself it's a miracle how he's still doing it but he's determined to exercise every ounce of his self-control to bring Paul to his release first. He's good at it with women; he'll be just as good at it with him.

And he's right because just then Paul's whole body starts to tense, and then he jerks beneath him, and Richard feels the warm moisture splash onto his hand as Paul lets out what can't even be classified as a proper moan but just a chocked little gasp, clenching around his cock hard enough for the sensation to border on the verge of unpleasant. After a final thrust, Richard pulls out and simply wanks himself to orgasm, hard and fast. When he finally climaxes, too, it feels like a blissful punch in the gut and it bends him in half, leaving him gasping loudly into the hollow of Paul's throat.

Richard doesn't know how long they stay as they are – Paul sprawled beneath him, arms thrown back behind his head, Richard lying half on top of him, half kneeling on the floor, his cheek pressed against Paul's shoulder. That shoulder, he remarks dreamily, is not one of the best things to sleep on, after all, but he can't move for the life of him; he wouldn't manage to even if he was lying on traffic spikes, so Paul's shoulder will have to do for the time being. When he does move, eventually, the sweat has long dried off his body and even though he's not exactly cold, he could certainly do with a blanket – nights this summer aren't particularly balmy.

His body – every single muscle in it, starting from the back of his neck and his jaws and down to his very calves – feels so sore as if he'd just run a fucking marathon. There's also semi-dried semen smeared all over the lower part of his stomach, and it doesn't feel particularly nice, but Richard wisely decides to put off the shower time till tomorrow. He's not sure he can actually make it to the bathroom right now anyway, and even if by some miracle he could, he's so totally drained that that is where he would have to stay until morning. And as of now, he'd rather spend the rest of the night with Paul.

"Don't you dare leave _now_ ," the man he wants to spend the rest of the night with makes himself heard once Richard's weight lifts off his body.

Paul's voice sounds hoarse and tired, heavy with sleep, too, but there's that unmistakable _Paul Landers's smart-arse_ tinge to it, the one that's implying that it would be the most ridiculous thing in the world to do right now. For once, Richard doesn't feel like arguing with him.

"I'm not intending to leave for anywhere," he mumbles as he crawls back onto the bed properly, trying to pull the coverlet together with the blanket off it. "I couldn't even if I wanted to.

"Good."

"So I suggest that you lift your nice little arse off the blanket and bring it here instead."

With a huff, Paul does just that, carefully collecting himself limb by limb, and then unsteadily crawls on all fours, swaying as he does so, to join Richard. They don't say a word more, and the last thing Richard is aware of before he falls into a sound, dreamless sleep is Paul's bony body curling cosily by his side and the sensation of his warm dry lips against his shoulder. It probably shouldn't feel so ridiculously good, but it does all the same whether Richard wants it or not.

*

Mornings-after have that notorious habit of shedding an entirely new light onto everything. This one is not an exception, to Richard's profound regret, and why would it be? For the sole purpose of making his life any easier, huh?

When he opens his eyes to behold the world, and when the latter greets him with a view of an utterly unfamiliar set of curtains behind which there's what looks like an utterly unfamiliar balcony door, he has to spend a couple of agonisingly slow seconds trying to comprehend or remember where the fuck he is. He's not sure but he thinks he does remember _who_ he is, and that's already a start.

Then there's quiet shuffling and rustling to his left, and the enormity of what happened last night – _this_ night – pins him down to the bed with the weight of responsibility for his actions which he hasn't even started to grasp yet. Richard doesn't dare to look anywhere but those light curtains with a flowery print just opposite the bed, something absolutely different from the last night's desire coiling tightly in his stomach. As he lets his mind venture on a brief journey back in time, last night seems to have been endless, from the moment he first caught Paul's cheeky stare on himself to the stinky bathroom, the messy handjob, the bar, their run home, the way Paul's naked body looked painted with the patches of light from the streetlamps, Paul's slick hand smearing Vaseline along his dick, the firm feeling of Paul's balls against his lips, him fucking the living lights out of the man, Paul's totally debauched body sprawled on the bed in front of him, his hands pressed to his face as he tried to muffle moans of pleasure, his semen splattering in pearly droplets onto his stomach. That single choked gasp that left his mouth as he came.

 _Jesus, and I was actually considering the possibility of playing together with him_ , Richard thinks, not quite in the state of terror as of now but mostly due to the fact that he hasn't really woken up wide enough yet. Give him just a couple of minutes and probably an aspirin and a fag, and he'd be sure to hit the panic mode headfirst. His heart is already beating a bit too fast, his palms are sweaty, and his head feels as if some sadist poured lead into it. Right now, the thought of playing anywhere together seems a bit too much. The mere possibility of looking Paul in the eye is already a challenge, or so it seems. He dreads the moment when he finally has to.

Richard's in the process of contemplating why the hell all these things always seem so simple when it's dark and so horribly complicated the moment you open your eyes to the new day, when there is another shuffle coming from his left and a warm brush of skin against the side of his arm. It gives him a start – not only because it's a bit unexpected but also because feeling Paul's skin on his own makes the memories flash brighter.

And then a quiet but emotional, _"Fucking crap!"_ comes by way of a good morning to him.

Before Richard can come up with anything to say in response to that, or to ask, or before he can even start to become properly horrified, Paul throws the blanket off himself and scrambles out of bed without as much as a glance in Richard's direction. In the blink of an eye, he's out of the room, leaving Richard to stare in dumb surprise at the empty door frame where just a fraction of a second ago Paul's naked butt disappeared.

_The fuck? Is he even more terrified than I am?_

Then there's a muffled sound of running water, and at least one thing seems to become clear – Paul's off to the bathroom and not out of the flat as if all the demons of Hell were after him. A moment later, there's another slam of the door, and then Paul bursts back into the room. He stops in his tracks at the door, however, squinting at Richard as if really for the first time remembering about the fact of his presence here at all. Silently, Richard just stares back at him in uncertainty.

Still, no matter how profoundly his common sense might be shocked on this particular morning, the part of his brain that's responsible for physical attraction seems to be functioning without any glitches in it. It registers Paul's pale, sleepy face, traces of weariness in the form of dark circles under his eyes and his heavy eyelids. It also notices and stores securely in his memory the way his naked body looks in the light of day as he stands there in the doorframe, scrawny and delicate, one hand resting on the door handle. Then Richard's eyes slip down to Paul's cock in the fluffy fair frame of his pubes, and he swallows hard. He can still recall, recall oh so perfectly well how…

What makes him return his startled gaze back to Paul's face is the sound of Paul snorting softly. Richard can't quite decide if he should be offended or relieved by it.

"Shit, I almost forgot we…" Paul interrupts himself with just a slightly confused giggle and ruffles the hair on the back of his head with his free hand. "Sorry to be waking you up like that," he goes on, now sounding perfectly in control of his voice, and enters the room, "I gotta go work this morning, and I'm already late, and… shit, where's the towel?!"

Not paying any attention to Richard, who's yet to utter a single word, he rummages through the room, muttering and cursing under his breath as he almost hops from one chair to another to the chest of drawers to the wardrobe.

 _And not a trace of self-consciousness in that man_ , Richard muses, dazed, as the said man scampers around the room with the only item of clothing on him being his hairband that barely holds on his dishevelled excuse for a ponytail.

When Paul finally does find what he looks for, he storms out of the room again, then storms back in kind to snatch some clothes from one of the chairs and dashes out once more. The bathroom door slams behind him loudly enough to make Richard give another start.

 _Madness_. _Absolute fucking absurdity._

By the time Paul emerges out of the bathroom, fully dressed a looking a bit more civilised, Richard has succeeded in relocating himself to the edge of the bed and pulling on his socks. Apart from them, he's still completely naked, so when Paul strolls to the bed and takes a seat beside him, his movements now a lot less urgent, he's almost painfully aware of all the expanse of his naked body and the presence of dried semen and whatnot which pulls at the skin of his cock. Richard swallows again, uncomfortably, not knowing what to do or say or even what to think, and, simultaneously, Paul lets out a little huff. Casting his gaze sideways, Richard sees that he stares down at his hands, biting his lower lip anxiously.

"This' ridiculous," he finally smirks and shakes his head

"What is?" Richard asks quietly, his voice still hoarse from sleep.

They are sitting so close that Paul's shoulder and thigh touch his, and that's even more unnerving.

Paul shrugs lightly. "I'm not the shy kind but right now it's for some reason… you know…"

"Yeah," Richard nods. "I know."

Unexpectedly, it's what makes him smile. Seeing Paul being just as flustered as he is – Paul, who maintains the image of an ironic wise guy who doesn't give a single damn about anyone's opinion – somehow manages to lift the weight of confusion off his shoulders.

"Look, I'm not… it's not that I often do this thing."

"Yeah, you told me as much yesterday," Richard says, and for some reason he doesn't doubt Paul even after having his dick up his arse. "I'm not either and I actually never did this thing before last night, so…"

He shrugs. He doesn't really know what he could say. The only thing he suddenly knows is that he's afraid that it is over. And he doesn't want it to be over, last night was way too good for it to be over, and it did absolutely nothing at all about that yearning he feels for Paul. If anything, it has made it stronger because now he knows _what_ it is exactly that he wants, and he wants it twice as much. Wants Paul twice as much. And this is indeed ridiculous.

Suddenly, there's a motion on Paul's side, and in a moment Paul's warm hand is pressed to Richard's cheek, beckoning him to turn his head, and then there are Paul's lips on his, and the kiss feels slow and sweet and painfully uncertain. Richard leans in, eagerly, and as Paul's arm slides carefully around his neck, Richard's own snakes around Paul's waist, pulling him closer.

"I thought sleeping with you will stop it," Richard murmurs into Paul's mouth, so wet and so warm and so awfully _accommodating_ , "but it seems like there's no chance in hell for it."

He doesn't elaborate what _'it'_ is, but he's more than sure Paul knows what he's talking about.

"I want you," Paul whispers in reply and sighs shakily, the sound coming out a little desperate.

"Then don't leave?"

"I can't, Richard. They'll kick me out if I don't come, and I need the money."

Richard feels him smile right against his mouth, and it feels positively intoxicating. _Shit, hasn't it escalated fast?_

"Doesn't make me want to leave you like this, though," Paul murmurs on. They don't kiss anymore but stay close all the same, foreheads pressed, noses touching and eyes closed. "You can stay if you want, you know, just lock the door when you leave and put the key into the mailbox. Take a shower and all. There must be some food in the kitchen, too, so cook yourself something if you're hungry. Flake won't be back till noon, I think."

"Flake?" Richard asks stupidly, and it actually makes the fog of wanting Paul and not wanting Paul to go anywhere dissipate a little.

"Yeah, we're sharing the flat."

"Hmm," Richard hums, not at all excited about the prospects of seeing the lanky keyboardist in the same premises where he's just fucked his supposedly best mate.

"I'll see you around then, huh?" Paul asks, and when his hand slips down to Richard's bare thigh, fingers minutely stroking his skin, the fog immediately gathers back.

"Yeah," Richard answers and gives Paul another kiss, this time thorough and deep, and doesn't stop until Paul starts moaning and humming just a little too desperately.

"Gotta go," Paul mumbles – babbles really – and moves back reluctantly. "Already way too fucking late."

So he goes, leaving Richard to take advantage of the bathroom and try to collect his wandering thoughts all on his own.

*

Predictably enough, it doesn't prove to be all that simple to arrange their next meeting, no matter how perfectly easy it seemed to agree on it while having Paul in his arms and having Paul's lips on his own. Life isn't like that, of course, and whatever plans or possible continuations Richard had in his mind for the two of them, it doesn't come to what he hoped the way he hoped it would.

The delay isn't due to his wanting Paul less or doubting himself more. He does want him all right, and as days go by, it gets more and more obvious that he doesn't _just_ want him, oh no. What he feels is more like a growing fixation, which – and that's one good thing about it, at least – simply outweighs all reservations he used to have in the beginning.

The entire thing proves difficult because, for some reason, for the first couple of days after their encounter none of them actually makes the first step. They haven't exchanged any contact details, and the only thing Richard knows about Paul is where he lives. A couple of days later he also learns – thanks to Schneider who is currently Richard's flatmate and by some lucky coincidence Feeling B's drummer – that the place Paul and Flake are sharing doesn't have a landline; and when Richard makes up his mind to actually find the man in one of the places they usually hang out at, he learns that Paul is presumably out of Berlin for a few days, playing in some rural ass of the world with only God knows who else. The news comes as a surprise not only for him, but also for Paul's bandmates, who are happy about the situation even less than Richard is, it seems.

The fact of Paul's unexpected absence doesn't really diminish Richard's ardour to meet the man again, but it does put a kind of damper on things, giving him way too much time on his hands, and, predictably, he spends it on excessive thinking. That said, some hard thinking might not be so bad in his situation – after all, he's still lost as to the reasons of his attraction to Paul; and now he's pretty sure it's all about _Paul_ and not men in general. For the sake of experiment, he tried to imagine himself with some other guy and failed miserably.

The first person he considered as a man he could potentially have any interest in was, unsurprisingly, Till. They've been good friends for a while – hell, he wouldn't call the big guy his soulmate, but he thinks their friendship is quite close to what brothers might feel. Till's older than him, and Richard would unhesitatingly entrust his own arse to him if push came to shove. If there's one person he could tell anything – or _almost_ anything, since he's certainly not planning on telling him about Paul, much as he's starting to want to talk about it with somebody – it's certainly Till. It would only be logical to want _him,_ if he's going to want any other man.

However, the idea of not even having sex but merely coming up to the big man and kissing him square on the mouth is first somewhat disgusting, and then plainly absurd.

Then there's Schneider, who, Richard suspects, has his own quirks and skeletons in the closet, what with his shock of unruly wavy hair and blue innocent eyes and his habit of training them on someone while wearing that silly grin of his which he, apparently, considers to be charming. Besides, there are rumours that he's a rather frequent visitor of the shadiest places in Berlin, too. Richard has no idea if it's true – and not much desire to get into the details, really – but knowing how often Schneider fucks off to somewhere in the middle of the night, one might wonder. Generally, he finds the man quite amiable – he's cool and a fun guy to be around, but he certainly does not like him enough to entertain even a remote thought of ever doing with him anything more intimate than a friendly brawl.

Richard has also looked at other random men and every single time the answer was one and the same – just no fucking way. So, if there is anyone else besides Paul who he would – _could_ – consider as his sexual partner, he's yet to see one. Thus, all the excessive thinking he's had to do has failed miserably in either changing his mind about Paul or making anything clearer save for the fact that over the time they haven't seen each other – and it's been more than a week now – he has only started to want Paul even more desperately.

Considering that Paul's sodded out of the city – to God knows where, for God knows how long and for reasons known only to him and, perhaps, to the Devil himself – the predicament Richard's starting to find himself in seems less and less amusing as days go by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The saga continueth. XD
> 
> *The quote from the same song, 'Higher Love'. And it does finally come to something of that sort, too.


	3. Chapter 3

_My weaknesses  
You know each and every one (it frightens me)  
But I need to drink more than you seem to think  
Before I'm anyone's  
And you know_

_It's a question of lust  
It's a question of trust  
It's a question of not letting what we've built up  
Crumble to dust  
It is all of these things and more  
That keep us together_ _.*(c)_

The chance to finally see Paul comes at the least anticipated time and in the least anticipated way. It's been a little more than a week since their first – and the last, so far – night together, and to Richard it seems like an absolutely unrealistic period of time. He can't make up his mind, though, whether it feels as if it had happened only yesterday or maybe in some other life, in another universe and to another person. Sometimes he's even starting to question the mere fact that it took place at all.

The confirmation that it did, after all, happen comes in the form of a late phone call.

Schneider is still at home but he's got plans for the night, judging by how fidgety he's been all evening, and he's the one who answers. At first, Richard doesn't even pay attention to the fact of the phone ringing at all. Even though they have a landline, phone calls aren't very frequent in their shared flat, especially late-night phone calls for _him_ – night seems to be Schneider's time. Still, when the drummer guffaws and calls the one on the other end of the line a _'little shit'_ , something in Richard's stomach tenses in anxiety, and he perks his ears to be able to hear the rest of the conversation. Virtually, there's only one person among the people he knows who could be, rightfully so, described as a _'little shit'_ , and that very person happens to be the one he's most interested in at the moment.

Richard's smoking beside the open window, and since Schneider could see him from his spot in the corridor if he turned his head, he pretends not to mind him at all. For some reason, that seems very important. Probably for the same reason his heart has picked up the pace considerably.

"After you've fucked off for almost two weeks leaving us to do your job here instead of you, _I_ should be the one grumbling about having to listen to your bullshit again!" Schneider snaps, and now Richard's absolutely positive as to who the other person is.

The drummer's been bitching constantly about Paul sodding off to somewhere without letting anyone know and thus leaving the entire production job on his bandmates' shoulders. Richard can certainly relate, even though he's got no business to do with Paul except _doing Paul_ , and the delay has nearly driven him up the wall, too.

"Not that I really want to speak to _you_ , you bastard, so there you go… _Richard_!!!" Schneider yells from the corridor, making Richard give a start and nearly drop his cigarette. "Come get the phone, that wandering little twat says he's got some important business to sort out with you."

"Who's that?" Richard mouths at the drummer from his place by the window, for the sake of decency trying his best to feign surprise. Besides, his heart is beating right in his throat, making it slightly problematic for him to speak normally anyway.

"Paul," Schneider scowls, rolling his eyes. "Do you know any other little twats in the neighbourhood?"

"He's back?"

"Damned if I know." The drummer makes a face as he gives Richard the receiver and sashays back into the room. "Says he is, but I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him."

Tentatively, as if it could bite him, Richard presses the receiver to his ear and starts speaking only when he's sure Schneider's not anywhere near, not safely out of hearing range but as far from the telephone as he could be.

"Yeah?" he says, trying to keep the nervousness out of his voice.

He's not sure he succeeds, though. It feels like he's going to spit his heart out in the next couple of minutes if it doesn't slow down.

"My place?" Paul asks by way of greeting, the hushed urgency of his voice making its tone drop so low that it seems to reverberate deep inside Richard's stomach.

"Where the hell have you been?" Richard inquires, his sweaty hand squeezing the receiver so hard he has to make a conscious effort to relax his fingers a little lest he snap the bloody thing in two.

It's not that it's crucial for him to know where exactly Paul has been, but it's all he can come up with.

"Jesus, I'm sure Schneider has been fussing and moaning about it more than enough these past few days so that you would know where I was. While we're on the topic, how many times have I been called _'the little shit'_ or _'the little wanker'_ or _'the insufferable little twat'_ , huh?"

It turns out to be so accurate it actually makes Richard snigger despite how wound-up he is.

"You forgot the _'chief smart-arse'_ and the _'selfish little prick'_. There have been a few new ones, I guess, but I'm sure you'll have a chance to hear them all personally."

"Already have, thanks a lot," Paul grumbles from his end of the line. "But back to business, the flat's empty, and my bed seems way too big and way too cold and all that, I guess you know the drill," he says, and Richard's sure he's smiling as he does so.

Smiling his unique sly little smile, and the knot that's formed in Richard's stomach first loosens a bit and then lets the weight of fast awakening desire drop down into his groin.

"You're astonishingly romantic, you know?" he jokes, keeping his voice low as he throws a glance back at the room. Schneider's nowhere to be seen, so he guesses he must have relocated to the kitchen. So much the better.

"Oh really? So should I go get some candles and rub myself with aromatic oils or something?" Paul's voice sounds ironic as if he was joking, too, but there's a certain edge to it, some deep, low, purring intonation, and Richard's not so sure that Paul's in a particularly joking mood. Before he can say anything, though, the voice on the other end of the line continues, "Or will saying that I just want you awfully suffice, huh? That I've been thinking about you every single day since that night? Thinking and imagining about how you'll hold me down against the bed and--"

"Stop," Richard hisses into the receiver, excited to the point of sporting a half-formed boner inside his underwear. He can hear the rush of blood in his ears, and he thinks he knows where the whole amount of it is directed.

"Then come?" Paul asks immediately, and this time he sounds as serious as he's possibly capable of. "I want you, Richard."

"God--"

"I need you," he repeats as if he hasn't heard him. "Want you in my mouth--"

"Be at yours in half an hour," Richard blurts and slams the receiver back onto its hold hard.

His hand is shaking and he feels perspiration on his temples, on the small of his back and in his groin. His breathing is ragged and fast, and it costs him a titanic effort to get it more or less under control as he storms into his room to change into something relatively decent and get out as soon as possible. He could never have thought that merely hearing Paul's voice over the phone could do such things to him, but here he is, feeling wired and on edge, the only thought beating in his head in red pulse is not a thought at all but a feeling, the conviction that if he doesn't get Paul _right now_ , he'll die, or maybe explode, or go completely nuts, all because of just how fucking much he wants him.

"Where are you off to?" Schneider asks in surprise, which can be perfectly justified since Richard complained earlier that day that he wasn't in the mood for parties when the drummer suggested going out.

Richard's hand freezes on the front door knob.

"Out," he says, panic starting to rise in his throat.

"I can see that." Schneider rolls his eyes. "I mean, with Paul?"

"He said some band's in need of a guitarist tonight, so yeah, kind of," Richard babbles and before the front door slams shut behind him, he can hear Schneider's confused _'what?'_ and _'which band?'_ and _'thought you didn't feel like going anywhere tonight!'_

Not looking back, Richard sprints down the stairs, blissfully ignorant of the fact that his guitar is standing peacefully back in his room just next to his bed.

He's sure it takes him improbably short time to get to Paul's place because he runs half of the way, then catches what seems to be one of the last buses, and then sprints the rest. By the time he reaches Paul's block of flats, he's so totally out of breath he needs a while just to stand before the entrance panting, hands propped into his thighs. He honestly cannot remember if he's ever run like this to a date with a girl, and there's a part of his mind that's still telling him it's all insane, that he should stop being an idiot and get his shit together, that it is not normal, for god's sake! But that voice has long lost its ability to bother him. It's become so easy to just dismiss it, shut it off, and pretend it's never even spoken up.

He doesn't need that voice to tell him anything, no, not now. Not now when all his mind's occupied with is the way Paul's body looked stripped of all clothes; not now when he wants Paul so desperately; not now when it feels like he absolutely _must_ touch his skin and taste his mouth and then do both things to his cock simply to survive the day.

If it's madness – let it be so. He welcomes it with open arms.

He can barely wait for Paul to open the bloody door – the period of time between the moment he urgently rings the doorbell until the lock finally turns seems to have taken forever.

Richard's sure he can't remember when was the last time when he felt like this, if ever at all. His heart is a wild drum inside his chest, hammering against his ribcage so hard Richard can feel the reverberations through his entire body. His hands are shaking, his breath is ragged, his body is covered with a thin sheen of sweat but he's not sure if he's hot or cold or maybe both at the same time. It feels like he's shivering from sheer, concentrated desire that's circulating through his veins instead of blood. It makes him feel like he's a live wire twisted by the force of an electrical current.

When the door finally does open wide enough, Richard all but bursts in, his hands seeking Paul's waist as he pushes him inside, pushes him until the moment the smaller man's back hits the wall and the man himself lets out a surprised yelp. A yelp is all Paul has time for, though, because the next moment Richard's lips are on his and all sounds he is able to make from now on are but mere hums and moans, which get louder when Richard grinds his pelvis against Paul's, letting him know – letting him _feel_ – just _how_ excited he is to finally see him.

What Paul does in response seems to flicker some switch inside Richard's head, and there goes all more or less coherent thinking ability he had left. Paul puts his hands onto Richard's butt, squeezing his buttocks hard with those trained guitarist's fingers, pulling him closer against his body and simultaneously pushing his thigh between Richard's. Richard doesn't need to be told what to do – he rubs himself against Paul's leg instinctively, his entire erect length, letting out little helpless noises into Paul's mouth.

The one and only thing that he does know about anything in this world is that he wants Paul and he must get him. There's no alternative. He simply must, otherwise it's going to be the end of him, for sure.

"You…" he pants as he temporarily leaves Paul's mouth be, paying more thorough attention to the side of his neck instead, making the latter gasp shakily, "have no idea…" Flicking his tongue against the silver earring, "just how fucking much…" Down to his quivering larynx, licking his skin this time, "I needed you," Richard finishes, sucking at the hollow between Paul's sharp collar bones, sucking hard enough to make sure there will be a bruise come following morning.

A mere image of Paul sporting a hickey from him on his neck makes Richard even hornier. Paul, meanwhile, still panting and gasping, is clawing at the hem of his t-shirt and his sweater in a clumsy attempt to pull them off at last.

"I've wanked myself sore this past week," Paul laughs quietly, breathlessly, sounding completely deranged, taking the throbbing in Richard's groin to the point of unbearable.

It's not even exactly _what_ he says – even though it in itself is a huge turn-on – but _how_ he says it that makes Richard almost howl with helpless want. At least it seems that way to him, that he could actually be loud enough to howl; in reality, all he manages is a strangled groan as he catches Paul underneath the buttocks and half-pushes, half-carries him further inside the flat, towards the familiar bedroom.

The rest of what they do rushes past in a whirl of skin, tongues, hair and this unbearable, maddening tension. They barely manage to get rid of their clothes, and there's absolutely no time to go get any lubricants, either, because at the moment it seems simply impossible that he could somehow let Paul out of his arms. No, just no. Fuck everything, all he needs is to be able to _feel_ , all of it; the smooth slide of Paul's feverishly hot skin against his own; the litheness and slimness of his body as they writhe against each other; Paul's scent – tonight having a tinge of some kind of cologne; his hands in Richard's hair, pulling and stroking alternatively; his rasping voice asking Richard – begging him, really – to hold him tight and _oh-god-please-don't-stop-yeah-more_ , his pleas drowned out by his own moaning.

Richard realises he can't stand it any longer – all of it; it's too much for him, too much of everything that feels so incredibly good, but he can't stop. There are Paul's lips against his own, so wet and eager, and he's got his tongue what feels like down to his very tonsils, and there's Paul's hard on pressed against his own, squeezed between their bodies as they squirm and wriggle against each other, thrusting, rolling over the expanse of the bed, holding on to each other, unable to stop the motion. It seems crucial that they keep it on, not only in the region of their groins but involving their entire bodies, too. It's way too good to stop, and Richard wants more of it, and more, and more.

His want is so great, so all-absorbing, so overwhelming that tonight he is absolutely not in control of it. When he realises that he's on the homestretch of what has every chance of becoming the most glorious orgasm of his life, it's way too late to put it off any longer, and he lets himself rush towards it. It might be his own voice that he hears as he comes hard, crying out as he rides through this perfect, agonising bliss, muffling the sound against Paul's shoulder, or it might not – it sounds way too distant through the noise in his head.

His orgasm grips him, making all his body muscles tense and cramped, but even then he's aware of the sensation of Paul's stiff thick cock pressed against his thigh, of the moist touch of his pre-cum on his skin, of the way Paul's hips thrust erratically against his body. It does require an effort of will from Richard to push himself off Paul since all he feels like doing now after he's just come is lying down, holding tight onto Paul and letting him finish the business himself. Still, what he wants even more is… well, _more_.

Trying not to pay attention to how profoundly frustrated Paul sounds the moment the contact between them is broken, Richard slithers down along his body. Paul's hips hump the air where there has just been Richard's thigh, and a whine of obvious indignation leaves his mouth. He sounds as if he would like to actually say something but he's so gone that the best he's capable of is this unintelligible whining. Paul doesn't have to suffer for long, however, because the next moment his cock is taken into Richard's hand, and Paul's hips jerk again, shooting up just to get more friction.

Once again, it takes Richard only a heartbeat to comprehend the whole picture in front of him, maybe just because he doesn't need much time to comprehend anything but Paul's flesh. It's big and thick and swollen, its head wet and glistening, and it feels weirdly good – weirdly _right_ – in the hold of Richard's hand. The skin is so delicate and so hot and so silken, and beneath it there's that stone firmness that's driving Richard completely mental. He doesn't just want to feel it against his palm, he wants to get it into his mouth to feel it against his tongue and his lips and… _oh Jesus_.

So this is precisely what he does, eyes closed, his hand pumping the shaft, his tongue swirling around its slick tip, his lips sucking to the best of his abilities. Somewhere in the world where his and Paul's bodies exist, Paul howls something and his hips thrust upwards again, to ram his cock deeper down Richard's throat, but it doesn't happen – Richard's whole weight is holding Paul's hips pressed firmly into the mattress. He just goes on with what he's doing, methodically, and out there somewhere Paul howls again, his body thrashing in a fit of something bordering on convulsions.

He can feel the tension building in Paul's thighs and his abdomen, and there's that throbbing sensation against his lips, a couple of powerful contractions that resonate with his own still pulsing with the residue of his orgasm cock, and then Paul's slimy semen is suddenly sliding down the back of his throat. Richard pulls back by instinct, coughing a little, but once he can breathe normally again, he returns his lips to the head of Paul's dick, licking the mess off, sucking out the last droplets of his cum.

In this frenzy, it doesn't taste merely alright. Right now – and Richard realises it must be a glitch in his brain that makes it perceive every single thing connected with Paul as a source of pleasure – right now, it is nothing short of a delicacy. He might have second thoughts about it come next morning, but not at the moment. At the moment, his utmost goal is not to miss a single drop and make Paul cry _louder_ , a task he successfully accomplishes, to his profound delight.

Afterwards, when the thrashing and moaning and gasping has finally stopped, they lie in silence for a while, drifting off on the slow waves of satiation and pleasant exhaustion, Richard on his back, one hand tucked comfortably under his head, the other holding that post-coital cigarette which tends to taste twice as good as a regular one. Paul's right beside him, curled on his side and facing the wall, his breath soft and even. Richard casts a glance in his direction, thinking that the man must have fallen fast asleep already. Not surprising, that, after how he tossed about in the throes of orgasm.

What is surprising, though, is how infuriatingly normal it feels, how Richard doesn't have any desire whatsoever to get out of this bed and run to wherever it is that his guilty conscience lies in wait to slaughter him with self-blame at first chance. It shouldn't be like this, should it? It is as if this whole situation is so normal that Richard's mind simply has to venture on an exploratory voyage into the depths of his self for the sole purpose of making sure that something is not, after all, normal. It shouldn't be that a perfectly straight man – at least a man who has all his sexually conscious life considered himself to be nothing but straight, and somehow still considers himself that way – should want his fellow male so compulsively, feel so oddly at peace lying side by side with this fellow male after they've just had the greediest sex of his life. It shouldn't be that staying in this bed should seem so perfectly reasonable to him and feel so comfortable.

Still, despite every single one of his mind's ridiculous attempts to find something wrong with the entire situation, for some reason, Richard doesn't _feel_ that there's anything wrong at all.

Carefully, so as not to wake Paul up in case he's really fallen asleep, he puts out his cigarette and edges further under the blanket, but it turns out Paul isn't asleep after all.

"Can you hold me?" he asks into the pillow, his voice muffled but perceptibly heavy and languid with drowsiness.

The request sounds a tad strange to Richard but it elicits a small smile from him all the same – if nothing else, it feels pretty nice to hold Paul, so why not.

"Sure," he replies, scuttling closer until the front of his body is pressed against Paul's back.

He snakes his arm around his partner's middle, pulling him even closer, his hand squeezing itself between his side and the mattress. The sigh which follows is so full of quiet satisfaction that Richard can't help but smile even wider. Saying nothing else, he nuzzles the back of Paul's neck, lips against that delicate curve where it joins his bony shoulder, and leaves there a little peck. This time it holds no sexual implication, though; he's way too tired and still sated with the previous experience to start to think of another round. This time it's just a kiss, a caress conveying gratitude, or care, or a wish good night; or maybe all of it.

Paul squirms deeper into his hold, lazily, somehow reminding Richard of a sleepy feline; the only thing amiss in that image is that of him starting to purr and scratch at Richard's arm like cats do when they're not set on murdering the human but allowing themselves to be petted instead. His hand starts its slow exploration of Paul's body all by its own accord since Richard's sunken way too deep into this pleasant, trance-like, condition to have any control over it. Slowly, dreamily, it splays itself over Paul's stomach, stroking it softly, fingers running over the warm skin, over the hardness of the protruding ribs and hip bones, trailing down along that light path of light hair that stretches from Paul's navel down to merge with the equally light hair in his groin. His palm brushes over the warm softness of Paul's cock and relocates to his hip, stroking along his thigh, meditatively, up and down and up again.

Lost in his thoughts and in the sensations, caught somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, Richard is pulled back into the room and into the bed they're sharing by Paul's quiet moan. It is so profoundly contented that, inexplicably, it sounds almost desperate, so Richard wraps both of his arms around Paul's middle, drawing him even closer, holding him even tighter, kissing the side of his neck and his shoulder over and over again. To his great surprise – and will they never cease tonight? – and certain delight, what he's doing elicits even more small, choked sounds out of his partner's mouth. It seems as if these nothing if not trivial caresses get him totally undone, and Richard suddenly recalls their first time when Paul actually told him as much – that he wanted to _be held_ – and how he came so unhinged when Richard complied.

 _So that's what turns you on_ , he thinks with a smile, rejoicing at the sounds Paul's making and at the way his body is all but melting against his own.

And as if Paul's been able to read his thoughts, he squirms and shifts in the hold of his arms, then finally rolls over, letting his face hover mere inches above Richard's. For a couple of moments, he doesn't do anything, just looks down on him, breathing heavily – Richard can feel it both in warm puffs of air on his face and in the way Paul's abdomen rises and falls against his own. He just looks, doing nothing, saying nothing, lips parted as if he would like to but either can't or doesn't know what to say. Richard's not sure what exactly he sees in Paul's face, it's way too dark in here to tell with way too many shadows shrouding his features, but for some reason he thinks – _feels_ – that there's something akin to dismay in Paul's eyes.

Then, before he can jump to further, utterly groundless, conclusions, Paul kisses him full on the mouth, deep and slow, but yes, he does seem totally desperate. It's this desperate intensity of the kiss – a different kind from the one which spurred them on when they were horny to the point of getting blue in the balls – that actually makes Richard hug Paul closer this time, to hold him flush against himself, and when Paul's lips relocate to the corner of his mouth, and then to his jaw, to his cheek, Richard closes his eyes, once again overwhelmed by that dizzying sense of inevitability.

They shouldn't be doing this, not like _this_ , but huh, who in their right mind would call it a day and stop it? Not him when it feels this desperately good, no.

"I…" Paul mutters against his cheek, voice so soft Richard more feels him speak rather than actually hears it. He swallows and kisses the corner of Richard's mouth again with such unbearable tenderness that Richard almost feels the sense of vertigo coming on. "It's just…"

Richard doesn't let him finish. Instead, he turns his head until he can feel Paul's lips on his own once more, and kisses him back. Slowly. Thoroughly. Soothingly.

"It's okay," he whispers in between those painfully gentle kisses, one arm holding Paul close, the hand of the other resting against Paul's cheek, his thumb stroking his skin in a feather-light caress.

He doesn't know what exactly he wants to convey with that _'okay'_. That it feels okay? That what they're doing to each other is perfectly okay? That how good it feels is okay? That Paul's strange craving for this tactile contact is okay? He doesn't know because he doesn't know what exactly is so suddenly off with Paul, but whatever it is he wants him to know that it's all okay all the same.

That's why he repeats it, stroking Paul's dishevelled hair. "It's all right, Paul," he whispers. "That's all fine."

He opts for soothing to let Paul know that he doesn't mind holding him like this for as long as he wishes, and to convince himself that his own desire to hold Paul close is indeed just fine, too. Judging by how Paul's body gradually relaxes into his embrace, he probably succeeds. He cannot quite say the same thing about himself, though.

A quarter of an hour or maybe a quarter of the night later – Richard has no idea anymore, he only knows that it's still pitch dark and thus it must be night – Paul seems to have dozed off, this time for real, his cheek resting snugly on Richard's shoulder, his breath a soft caress of air against the side of Richard's throat. If he turns his head just a little, his mouth brushes over Paul's forehead, and he keeps occasionally doing it, just for the sake of feeling Paul's skin on his lips again. 

_It doesn't mean anything, does it?_ he tells himself. It's only normal to want to leave a kiss there since it's actually so close to his mouth.

As minutes drag by and sleep still wouldn't come, Richard has nothing else to occupy himself with but give free rein to his thoughts. Probably not the brightest idea considering it's the dead of night, and allowing your thoughts to roam freely and venture anywhere at such a time might not end up all too well, but he's got nothing else to do. He's feeling pretty weary and he wouldn't really mind to pass out at last but he guesses it's the fact that he's got Paul all over himself, clinging to him so tightly that he's all but wrapped around Richard's body, that is preventing him from falling asleep. Not that he minds much, though. If anything, it really feels good to have Paul wrapped around him, but that's what raises more questions, too.

As if he already didn't have way too many, most of them unanswered.

Strange as this situation is – at least for him, because he would never have imagined himself ever thinking about sleeping with a man, let alone enjoy all this touchy-feely nonsense – strange as it might be, he could perhaps understand Paul's possible reasons.

He just might have that weird curiosity, that itch that just needs to be scratched, along with the fixation on being held and touched that gets him so completely undone, whatever it is caused by. This desire, combined with how goddamn slender Paul is, could possibly justify the need to find himself a man to do just that. And then as far as men are concerned, why, Richard makes a perfect candidate, doesn't he? He's bigger than Paul; not much taller but certainly way heavier and having much more meat on him. Now that Richard thinks of it in this light, even that sleek-arsed Jacob the club owner fits into this theory pretty well because he's nowhere near like Richard himself, at least appearance-wise, taller yet leaner, his muscles well-defined but not bulky, which may be the reason why it's not him but Richard who is sleeping in Paul's bed now.

Or perhaps Richard just wants to get that slimeball out of the picture and convince himself that whatever intentions he might have for Paul, they're doomed to failure. Not quite pleased with such conclusion, Richard pushes the thought out of his head. What does it even matter who else might have their eyes trained on Paul? He's an easily likeable guy, he's got every right to draw people's attention to himself.

And then, when it comes to trying to justify his own motives, Richard gets hopelessly stuck.

And really now, what's his excuse for being in Paul's bed? How the hell did it even happen that he looked at him this way at all? He doesn't need to be held and he doesn't need to be fucked and he doesn't need a man beside him; what he needs is a woman, the more feminine, the better, he's as sure of it as he's ever been. But nonetheless, here he is, wanting Paul to the point of dementia; wanting to hold him and wanting to fuck him. And, Richard realises with a certain amount of surprise, wanting to _talk_ to him, too. Or maybe wanting Paul to talk to him because it seems like there is something Paul might have to say.

It could be nothing but his curiosity, of course, Richard muses. His curiosity and mere chance that he and Paul happened to be in the right place and at the right time for everything to just click into place. If it hadn't been Paul back then, it might be someone else some other day, or maybe it would simply never have happened at all.

What is also a little unsettling is that all those questions don't really bother Richard as much as he thinks they should. Probably, it's the most unsettling thing of all, he muses, absently drawing his hand over Paul's back. On the other hand, if the lack of problems is his only problem, then maybe he'd better stop trying to find fault with it and enjoy the whole thing while it lasts.

He doesn't mind holding Paul. He's not the biggest fan of those lovey-dovey kissy-huggy things, but it's never been hard for him to give, at least as far as sex and all that's connected to it is concerned. People that know him personally might beg to differ, of course, but certainly not his sexual partners; that he's almost sure of. Besides, he thinks he does like Paul, and not only as someone he'd want to sleep with. He thinks that he likes Paul as a person he'd want to have as his friend. He wouldn't mind to have him as his bandmate, either. And the sex is good, too. Well, screw that. The sex has been amazing so far.

A soft sigh leaves Richard's mouth as he half-smiles, half-huffs against the top of Paul's head, wishing he could fall asleep as easily as the man in his arms did.

When Richard opens his eyes next time, it's still dark and he's not nearly as rested as he'd like to feel, which altogether means that it couldn't be morning yet. Apart from that, he's alone in bed. After a short and somewhat dazed examination of the surroundings, Richard comes to the conclusion that it must be around four in the morning – now that his eyes have got accustomed to the lighting, it doesn't look completely dark anymore. The room is filled with dull, pre-dawn light that makes it hard to understand yet whether the oncoming day is going to be fair or overcast.

After a second or third round of looking around the room, he finally notices Paul. He's out on the balcony, seemingly naked. The balcony door has been left ajar, and Richard can feel the coolness of the morning breeze on his arms. It also brings inside a barely noticeable smell of cigarette smoke. He suddenly realises he craves a shot of nicotine, too, and why not when he's already woken up – might as well take the opportunity, the only thing stopping him is uncertainty whether that strange fit of whatever happened to Paul earlier has passed. After a brief consideration, the craving wins, and Richard reluctantly gets out of the warm bed and into the considerably fresher air of the room, his skin instantly getting covered with gooseflesh. He shivers and snatches the coverlet from where it lies crumpled on the nearest chair, along with his cigarettes from the stool which serves as the nightstand.

It turns out that the coverlet is not a bad idea at all since, in the best tradition of Paul Landers, he's indeed lingering there butt-naked, and judging by how unnaturally rigid his body looks, it can't be all that balmy outside.

"You'll freeze your balls off, you fucking exhibitionist," Richard mutters, a cigarette sticking out from the corner of his mouth, as he wraps the coverlet around both of them, his arms crossing in front of Paul's chest and unceremoniously pulling the smaller man against himself.

The latter gives a start, followed by an elaborated curse as he nearly drops his cigarette but manages to recover his hold on it at the last moment. Then he shivers, relaxes a little and snuggles further into Richard's embrace.

"I thought my balls were solely my concern, huh?" Paul answers in a matter-of-fact manner, taking a slightly quivering drag.

His body feels cold against Richard's warm and still drowsy one.

"I beg to differ for as long I sleep with you."

As if to prove his words, Richard takes hold of the corners of the coverlet in one hand and lets the free one tickle its way down Paul's stomach until it gently takes a handful of Paul's genitals, squeezing them ever so lightly.

"I guess I kind of need those, you know. For at least a while longer."

Paul laughs out quietly, letting out a small cloud of smoke. His hips thrust forward, into Richard's hand, and his head, on the contrary, rests back on Richard's shoulder.

"Well, then take better care of them," he huffs, the tone of his voice unmistakably teasing.

It makes Richard smile, too, almost against his will. The man, whatever demons he's got in his head, no matter how complicated his personality is – and for some reason Richard suspects he hasn't yet seen even a half of it yet – the man, nonetheless, _can_ be adorable. Ridiculous as it may sound, even Richard himself finds him so, and as to girls… girls must be utterly lovestruck next to him.

"I will once we're back in bed," he purrs into his ear, punctuating his promise with another playful squeeze of his hand. "Now gimme some fire and tell me why the hell you would want to hang out here butt-naked at shit o'clock."

Paul obliges, letting him light up his cigarette from his own, and then accommodates himself a bit more comfortably in Richard's arms. As of now, Richard can't detect any discomfort or that fidgety sort of despair either in his movements or in his words.

"Woke up, wanted to take a piss, decided to have a smoke while I was at it. Besides, I like the view from here, especially when the streets are empty. Woke you up, huh?"

"Not exactly," Richard smiles. "I guess the fact that I was finally able to breathe without being squeezed to death was what woke me up."

"Asshole," Paul retorts with a huff. "I _was_ going to ask you if it was alright but you--"

"It was alright, Paul, I'm just kidding," Richard interrupts him before the man can voice any of his mistaken conclusions. "And it _is_ alright. I don't mind it."

Paul nods but doesn't say anything.

"In fact, I think I kind of like it, too," Richard goes on, not particularly pleased with the ensuing silence.

Still, there are no silly jokes or caustic remarks on the topic, and Richard winces at the thought that he should probably have kept his mouth shut. They smoke without saying anything else for a while until Richard decides to break it with another question. The common sense – strangely alert at this time of day – tells him it might be another one of his not very bright ideas, but Richard habitually tells it to shut up and mind its own business.

"Paul?"

"Huh?"

"Talk to me?"

"Talk to you?" Paul asks. "Well, the park over there – you see, just at the corner of Kniprodenstrasse and Am Friedrichschain--"

He points with his hand, the cigarette, which has gone out by now, still stuck between his index and middle fingers, and all of a sudden Richard has an urge to take his hand and press his bony wrist to his lips.

"--it's particularly nice early in the morning. It's got those two hills and sometimes mist--"

"Fuck's sake, Paul, I know what that park looks like," Richard interrupts him mid-sentence, not particularly pleased with Paul trying to evade the question. "Are you okay? I mean, what's it with you and that holding you tight thing?"

Paul doesn't answer immediately, and Richard feels his body tense, making him wish he had kept his mouth shut after all.

"Don't know," Paul sighs at last. "Apparently something in my childhood, all things are from childhood, they say," he chuckles. "There's no tale of woe and no drama behind it, at least none that I know of, so if you wanted to hear anything of that sort – sorry, man. It's just… it turns me on, as you might have noticed, and it… I don't know, it makes me feel good. More at peace."

"So that's it, you're just so full of piss and vinegar you need to be grounded?" Richard chuckles softly, aiming at diluting the situation and lightening the mood.

Paul shrugs awkwardly and reaches out to put his cigarette into a makeshift ashtray perched on the balcony bannister.

"If you don't feel like it, just don't do it. No problem."

"Why wouldn't I do something if it makes you feel good?" Richard asks with a sigh, putting his own cigarette out, and then pulls Paul back into his embrace. "Besides, I told you, I _like_ holding you."

"Good then," Paul huffs. "Because I like _you_ holding me. I guess I might be getting a little hooked on it, too."

Hearing that, Richard can't help but laugh out. He also thinks he can't help liking Paul even more now.

"So if that's settled, tell me then, I wasn't your first?"

"Hell, is it an interrogation?" Paul sputters, sounding perfectly exasperated, but Richard guesses that for as long as he stays relaxed in the circle of his arms, there's no immediate danger of getting one of his infamous _Paul Landers_ attitudes. He'd prefer to avoid those for as long as possible, thank you very much. "Do I have to call my lawyer?"

"You don't have a lawyer, you vagrant," Richard chuckles amiably. "But seriously, I'm just curious."

"Curiosity killed the cat," Paul deadpans.

"Yeah, but you don't seem like you're gonna go homicidal anytime soon. And anyway, who'll hold you and take care that your tools down there don't freeze off, huh?"

"What makes you think so? I thought it was a complete blunder on my part," Paul sighs, letting the back of his head rest on Richard's shoulder again.

"Well, maybe it was, but I was certainly not the one to notice and criticise, you know."

As Richard turns his head a little, he can see Paul smiling softly.

"I did it once, a couple of years ago," he says after a brief consideration. "Thought I could probably like the entire thing if I did it with someone else."

"Was it Flake?"

"God forbid!"

"Aljoscha?"

"Jesus, Richard, are you going to name everyone both you and I know?" Paul chuckles and shakes his head. His hair tickles Richard's shoulder and the side of his neck as he does so. "It wasn't him, either. He probably wouldn't mind, for all I know. He wouldn't make too bad an option, I guess; I know him well enough, but he's… well, what you could call not my type, I reckon."

Richard nods, silently, despite himself trying to imagine Paul with someone else. Paul and his band have so many bizarre people hanging around them all the time; it could have been any of them.

"That Jacob what's his name…" he says, remembering something he actually wanted to tell Paul.

"Huh? What of him?"

"He was hitting on you, back there in the bar."

"I know," Paul sighs after a little hesitation.

"Yeah, I guess you do; probably hard to miss it when he was all over you."

"'twas him."

"Huh?" Richard isn't sure he can quite understand what Paul means. Was him where? Was him when?

"First time and all," Paul answers, not sounding too excited about the fact that they have raised this slippery topic.

Richard can't help but cringe in disgust. "Are you having me on?"

"Nope."

"Jesus, Paul… he's… I mean, no offense, but… _Ugh_."

"Well, I'm sorry, but you weren't around at the time, you smart arse," Paul retorts, but despite his obvious annoyance, there's also a hint of a smile in his voice.

So Paul really must like him better than that sleek bastard, Richard thinks. And just like that, the fit of revulsion dissipates as suddenly as it hit him, and he feels himself grin like an utter moron instead. He laughs quietly, nuzzling Paul's temple and pulling him a bit closer.

"What was wrong with him?"

"Will your questions never cease?"

"I just wanna know what I shouldn't do, you know. So that you wouldn't dump me, too."

"I didn't _dump_ anyone. We weren't in a fucking relationship to start with," Paul snaps in irritation. "And as to what was wrong. Well, _everything_ was. You saw him for yourself, for fuck's sake."

"Why him then?"

"He's older. He knew what he was doing. I didn't really, I was merely curious. And drunk. It was alright, but… well, right thing, wrong person. And not my type, either."

"So picky," Richard chides quietly right into Paul's ear, making the latter fidget against him.

"Yeah, so you're one lucky bastard to have me," he huffs, his hand creeping over Richard's side to rest against his buttock. "So, what's _your_ excuse then? Enough revelations from me, your turn."

_Oh, so here it finally comes._

Instead of a reply, Richard just hugs Paul tighter, leaving a trail of soft pecks from his ear, along his jaw and down his throat, making Paul sigh with satisfaction.

"I don't know," he says after a long moment, shaking his head, and then shrugs. He genuinely wishes he knew what his excuse is.

For a while, they remain still, watching the incipient morning light up the sky in the east, and then Paul breaks the silence, voice ever so soft.

"Hey, you're being too quiet."

"And you're customarily not," Richard smiles. "I just want you, I guess. That's the only excuse I have."

"Does it frighten you?"

"A little. Less than I thought it should, though. Were you frightened? That first time?"

"Of you? Nope," Paul says quietly, taking Richard aback because he actually meant Paul's first ever experience, but if he's willing to somehow forget about that sleek bastard of a bar owner and refer to the night he spent with Richard as his first, he definitely wouldn't be the one to object. "Frightened of myself? Yes."

"You looked delirious."

"I wanted you so much I _was_ delirious."

"Maybe that's because I'm your type, huh?" Richard asks, feeling that stupid kind of smile creeping back onto his lips uninvited.

He can't help it because it's always nice to be wanted. By now, he's only got used to being wanted by ladies, but huh, being wanted by Paul doesn't seem half so bad.

"Maybe you are." Paul's other hand finds its way to Richard's behind, as if in confirmation. "And as long as it's fine by you, I suggest we keep this thing going because I'm nowhere near done wanting you."

"And I suggest we get the hell out of here and I'll take care of the state of things below your waist as promised," Richard grins, once again venturing down to grab hold of Paul's suddenly not _so_ soft cock. _"You not quite so little insatiable wanker."_

He rubs his own groin against Paul's small firm butt before pulling him back into the room.

"And you like me just like that," Paul states smugly and giggles like a complete idiot as Richard's fingers tickle him just _down there_.

" _Like_ you? You're driving me delirious, Paul, whatever I've done to deserve it," Richard all but groans because it's so true. "I'd _eat_ you if I could."

This time Paul positively guffaws, his hands squeezing on Richard's butt possessively.

"I don't know about eating me whole, but there's a certain part you can start with," he sniggers as Richard propels him back towards the bed, suddenly not sleepy at all.

This night is turning out to be very long, but hey, if it's not the very joy of it, then what is?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Richard has some pondering to engage in and Paul some explanation to offer, but they manage, I guess XD
> 
> *'A Question of Lust' by Depeche Mode.

**Author's Note:**

> This one takes place right after the 'I want you now' thingie. There's more to come, and, for some reason, it's all written with Richard's point of view in mind. Perhaps because young Herr Landers is such a fabulous specimen that it'd be tricky to disregard him. I guess I'll just follow a more or less chronological order of events now, even though all of it was written absolutely randomly. Hopefully, it'll make more sense that way. 
> 
> *'Higher Love' from the best record of all times, Songs of Faith and Devotion by Depeche Mode.


End file.
